


in desperandum

by Milu_i



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: "Take what you need", Father-Son Relationship, Fictober, Gen, Good!Drautos, Hurt Noctis Lucis Caelum, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2018, poisoned (by magic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milu_i/pseuds/Milu_i
Summary: Glauca charges with no hesitation and Noct sends a quick prayer to his grandfather, as he lifts the sword up just in time to meet the otherwise fatal strike and thenpulls.It’s not like summoning a weapon from his armory.It’s not like phasing or warping – forcing his body to follow a line unseen by anyone else.It’s nothing like the magic Noct is familiar with.The sheer amount ready at his beck and call reveals itself with the wordless command in his head and the kings step aside from the protection they have formed inside the ring to give him what he demands.Take what you need._Niflheim, on the brink of loosing the war with Lucis, sucessfully invades a reception and cuts off all Lucian leaders of the military and royal house from the ouside world.All except for one.And Noct, alone and desperate and at wits' end, only has a small family heirloom to back him up.





	in desperandum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Asset6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/gifts).



> **Please note:**  
>  \- slightly AU, because Niflheim isn't even close to being as strong as they are in the game and thus the Wall is not a thing anymore  
> \- Drautos and Glauca are two different people  
> \- I really, really recommend sitting down somewhere u comfy and listening to the music. Does wonders for me while reading a fic. :)  
> \- ... I'm as close to feeling good about the story as I can get w/out writing another 2k words and spending thrice as much time on it. Buut- it's not my best work. Nonetheless I wanted to dedicate my first FFXV story in the fandom to an author on this site who is absolutely brilliant in what they do. So this is for you, dear, even though it is far from what I would have liked to gift you.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Music tip:  
>  RØMANS - People**  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ue0AKzdzAo

 

 

_Enjoy the party._

 

The phone in his hand nearly slips through his fingers and he manages to not run into a wall or a person on the sidewalk, while he tries to hit the call button once more. The slow beeping in his ear almost seems teasing, especially when it jumps to the mailbox like the five times before.  
No answer. Not from his dad, not from Clarus, not from Gladio. It’s like they vanished.

 

_“… us that ten minutes ago several explosions could be heard in the area surrounding the Citadel and the welcome reception for the Niflheim refugees that has been long awaited by Insomnian people and royalty alike. Whether it actually is a terror attack like many sources report is still-“_

 

Next number. Ignis.  
His hands are too wet from the heavy rain pouring down on him. The phone slips out of his hands and breaks apart on the dark stone of the pavement. He doesn’t even stop running, leaves the remnants lying on the ground as he turns the corner and finally is able to see the tall, towering building in front of the dark night sky, enshrouded by heavy rainclouds.  
The eerie vibes from deserted, rain-covered streets and the vague, yellowish glow of the streetlamps in the dark would have fitted the moody, cold autumn night in the middle of November, weren’t it for the harsh blinding light of police cars stationed across the street. The third barricade he has come across, every way to the Citadel is blocked off by either the police or several Glaives trying to find out how to enter a bastion that was originally meant to keep their enemies out, not the other way around.  
They’ll never let him go through.

 

_“Will you stop your childish behavior and join us at the reception? I can be at your apartment in twenty minutes.”_

_“I’m not going. He ruined everything with that stupid bill and it isn’t even necessary, they have just lost ever-“_

_“I know. But you refusing to show up is the exact opposite of what the people await from you after your-“  
An explosion._

_“I- Ignis? Iggy?! What was that? … Iggy?!”  
Beeping._

 

The dagger in his hand feels uncomfortable, reminding him too much of someone way better at wielding it, nonetheless he throws it over the startled officers and disappears into a swirl of blue shards, before he appears several meters behind them but still too close for comfort. Two warps later he sends the dagger back into his armory and continues running with harsh breaths. It still takes more of a toll out of him than he and everyone else for that matter would be comfortable with.  
The shortcut is overgrown and more than once his foot catches on something unseen and sends him to the muddy ground. The dark shirt is soaked by rain and dirt, the fitting sweatpants he has been wearing while sulking on his couch zapping through the TV stations until _this_ caught his attention is in even worse shape, torn at several places where stones have cut through the soft material, but at the moment it’s the least of his worries.

The Citadel is on lockdown.  
No one knows anything – except for the explosions.  
No one gets out, no one in.

And still the truth seems painfully obvious.  
A planned attack. Niflheim always, _always_ fights dirty. Especially when a stupid, naïve prince risks his head to support their own people, when everyone else tells him to keep the enemy far away from Lucis, especially the crown city.  
But oh, what a shy smile and a raging speech can unfold.

Funny, how he is the reason for the downfall of the country he is born to protect.'  
Because that’s what it is, otherwise something would have happened a long time ago now. Clarus would have found a way to overwhelm the attackers. Drautos would have smashed through them with brutal force to protect the crown. Cor would have struck out of the shadows at the right time. Gladio and Ignis would have formulated a plan and Prompto – even Prompto was there, newest member of the Crownsguard, so happy and innocent in his glee to join an official event doing his duty for the first time ever and Noctis wasn’t even _there_ – would have gotten in a brilliant shot out of nowhere to get them an opening.

But nothing happened. No one was seen. No message. No threats. Nothing.

 

_“…down. There was an attack at the reception. We-“_

_“I know, I know, dammit! Why are you still standing here, try to contact them, someone, anyone, or better yet, get your-“_

_“Until further notice we are to stay by your side and protect you.“_

_“I’m as far away from the Citadel as I possibly can be, you are of no use here, get over there and try-“_

_“Listen kid, we like this situation as much as you do, but get it into your head. With the information we’ve got we have to assume the king, the heads of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive as well as every leading member of the council are currently held hostage or dead. As of now you are the highest authority in the country. We can’t – leave - your side!”_

 

The small passage Iris and him had used ages ago has long since been locked up. A quick look into the dark gardens behind the thick windows, then he mercilessly smashes through the glass with his sword and climbs through the hole regardless of the shards leaving red streaks on his skin.  
He has to come up with a plan.

When not even the combined forces of the royal house can get the upper hand though, how is he supposed to get them out of this mess? A prince, barely a grown-up legally and not by a long shot in the eyes of the council? A prince that _still_ struggles with using his magic even after so many years of being trained by the best mage in the country – his own dad? A prince that only began growing into his position and what was required of him when it was about the people of the enemy country of all things?

His title weights heavy on his shoulders, as he runs with pounding steps through the dark and empty hallways.  
The ring around his neck weights heavier though.

 

_“Once upon a time, the war was… darker. Niflheim stronger. Our people needed more than righteous guidance. Some form of protection only the Gods could give us.”_

_“They raised the Wall?”_

_“Indeed. It covered all of Lucis and the enemy was unable to take a single step into our country. We gained the upper hand.”_

_“Your father took it down though, right? Were you still able to see it?”  
A chuckle._

_“It was magnificent. A veil woven by Shiva herself covered the sky, turning it that much more blue. During the night…”  
A sigh. Eyes caught in a memory._

_“Why did he take it down though? Sure, Niflheim was weak, but to make sure no harm comes to our country…”  
He trails of, unsure. The proud smile he gets in return turns his cheeks red._

_“Because it took a strain on every king. To maintain the Wall, to be able to channel the Crystal’s magic… It weakened their life force tremendously. To assure that the royal line wouldn’t cease to exist, King Mors decided to cut the Crystal’s power and thus take down the Wall.”  
A frown on a face too young to properly understand. Another chuckle, fond._

_“Nonetheless the Ring of the Lucii is a gift of our forefathers we still keep close to ourselves until this day, so in great need we can call upon our Gods to put us under their protection.”  
A small heirloom. The boy takes it with awe, before glancing back at the king._

_“But we rejected their help because the price was too high, didn’t we? Why should they help us again?”_

 

The words in his head remain unspoken.  
The fear is overwhelming.

There is no way. His father? Maybe. Him? Never.

Not after he has brought this disaster over Lucis himself.

The first soldier crosses his way when he stops shortly before the elevators.  
His head is bashed in and blood covers the floor in an ugly splattered pattern. The second one looks at the ceiling in a twisted way, too unnatural for the pose the rest of his body is stuck in. They began taking out the guards on the lowest level? How did they manage without raising suspicion? There was no way they would have remained unaccompanied, not after the council finally passed the bill yesterday. Someone else helping them? The refugees already in Insomnia? But they never would have gotten this far and again – not without some guards who would have raised the alarm long before the bombs could go off. Like the rest of the soldiers on the other levels would have done.  
It doesn’t make sense at all.

The elevators don’t work, the lights are dim.  
He rushes off towards the tedious stairs, already feeling the ache of his leg and his back, but at this point he cares about the pain as much as about the look of his clothes. He has to make it in time. Maybe the explosions were a warning, a way to scare help off. If the guards are incapable to reach anyone, not the Marshall, not Clarus, not Drautos – they are too scattered, unable to function without being led.  
_As of now you are the highest authority in the country._

Another thing to add to the guilt.  
Maybe he could have had a chance of turning the situation around if he had just _thought_ before running off.

The stairs are pitch black, when the door clicks shut behind him and locks out the faint light of the auxiliary lighting in the hallway. That’s when he notices the blue light.  
It’s faint, almost invisible, but still there close to his heart. His fingers wander to the chain around his neck and slowly he pulls forth the ring and its shimmering glow that grows stronger and illuminates the stairs around him.  
He ignores the tug in his navel and rushes upwards taking two steps at a time. The possibility that it’s a sign – another one joining the kings of yore – is always at the front of his mind. Coming up with a plan? Useless. He will be too late, coming to join the party so that they can kill off all chains of command in this country once and for all. It’s a suicide mission, the guards were right to try to keep him as far away as possible, but…

 

 _I don’t want to talk to you_  
_I don’t want to see you_  
_Noctis, please –_

_enjoy the party_

 

If that’s the last thing he has told his dad, enjoy the **fucking** party, if that’s the last thought in his mind thinking of his only child…

The door to the thirteenth floor creeps open in front of him and before he can waste another thought his sword is out in a defensive block, while he keeps on rushing upwards towards it.  
Enemy has the higher ground, make up for it and fast, take him by surprise, maybe from the back, use the elevation, throw him down, take care of others following –  
It’s a guard, pulling himself forward with one arm while the other one is pressed onto a wound in his stomach that leaves a deep red stain in his wake. The floor behind him – deserted by the living. Corpses, more now. The floor of the party. No signs of an explosion catches his eye, before the door falls shut and a gurgling noise pulls him down to his knees. Not the sheer exhaustion in his trembling limbs, not the all-encompassing fear stopping him from creeping onwards.

“He-Help, you need… get help…”

“Where are they?”  
His voice sounds surprisingly steady contrary to the rest of his body, cold almost. In a way to quell down the guilt at not caring for the unknown man first, for having only his loved ones in mind, he tries to pry his hand away that covers the wound. It’s easy despite the death grip he has on the bloody mess.

“Had no chance, we need-“  
He is rambling, probably too out of it from the blood loss. Quelling down the frustration – because getting frustrated at a dying man, a soldier for his father, for _him_ , is as disgusting as the act of terrorism itself – he curses as the faint light of the ring disappears and leaves him with absolutely nothing to illuminate the wound so he can take care of it. The hallway behind the door spends more light, enough to get a good look at him (but it’s for nothing anyway, who is gonna get him out, Noct is not going to turn around now) but he is going to reveal his position to possible attackers (whom he has met none of so far which is suspicious enough) in doing so.  
The painful groan beneath him is enough of a shove in one direction, so he pries open the door slowly, peaks through the slim gap and nearly chokes on a surprised gasp. There are people. Alive and with heavy guns in their hands that look an awful lot like those shown to them during the last council meeting he has attended. Their armor is different as well from what he is used to, more cut out, more sterile, more inconspicuous to the unfitting white Niflheim brags itself with. Still those men are from Lucis’ number one enemy. It’s obvious with those stupid helmets they wear and how they step over men clinging to life with their last grasps of consciousness in complete disinterest.  
With as little noise as possible Noct closes the door again and tries to silence the rapid beating of his heart. How did he not notice them before? There haven’t been any guards, have there? He is as sure as he can be, but then again the adrenaline finally wearing off and the exhaustion and pain setting in are as offsetting as can be with a man dying at his feet and Noct being unable to do _anything_ about it.

“Y- Your Highness!”  
The voice below him is more alert and coherent and even though he can’t see much through the darkness, he is sure that the guard must have seen his face during the two seconds Noct has pried the door open. “Shh,” he tries to calm him down and stop him from alerting the enemies to their position, as he gropes for the man’s coat so he can rip a piece of fabric out to stop the bleeding. Or to buy him some precious seconds. Because in the end Noct can’t even perform a simple healing spell to close a wound from training. He’ll never be able to save the man’s life in time.

And he obviously knows it too from the way he slaps Noct’s hand away and instead grabs it in his bloody own to pull him closer. With pain lacing his lowered voice he mumbles, “Ya need to get out of here, if they get you too, if they manage to kill our prince-“

“What happened? Where are the others? Are they still alive?”  
His hands are shaking, the question is out and the fear finally able to settle into every fiber of his trembling body. What if they are dead? What if he is the last chain of command remaining alive? Will he turn around, try to rally the rest of the guards and glaives together that are not far off defending their country at the border or already killed to take back the Citadel? Are there even enough left to do so? Or is the enemy already coming in, flooding their borders to overrun the country that is to be led by an incapable prince who aided them from the beginning on?

“Prince Noctis-“  
When he glances down, there is an eerie glow surrounding them, bluish and faded, just barely enough to make out the form crumpled on the ground. At first he thinks it’s from the ring again.  
“Please, leave. Go. You’re our.. our only…”  
His voice fades, the grip around his hand softens. For a moment he is left sitting on the ground beside a man whom he didn’t even ask for his name. The bluish glow brightens enough to highlight the endless gaze of dead eyes that seem to stare right through his soul. It’s chilling and grounding in a way he doesn’t want to dwell upon.  
The hall. The enemies he has to get through. Right.

He can break later over this.  
For now… redemption.

Only when his trembling hand picks up the forgotten sword from the floor and the bluish light doesn’t follow but instead remains with the man behind of him does he notice that it doesn’t origin from the necklace and the ring hanging from it.  
The figure, enshrouded in the bluish tint he bathes their surroundings in, stands completely still behind of him. Not human. Even without the obvious marks about him labeling him as one of the king of yore the air around him feels… different. Farther away. Distant in a way that he is not meant to follow.

_“Lucis is not lost yet.”_

His voice booms in the stairwell and for a frightening second Noct fears the door will crash open to reveal multiple enemies – but no one enters, no one is any wiser.  
“There is no chance I can lead us to victory,” he answers without thinking about the insanity of the situation and instead stares off into the distance with memories of old, faded dreams appearing in front of his inner eye. Back at a time when their armor looked a little bit more real and their appearances at the sound of the child laughing a little bit more at ease.  
It’s not the first time one of them visits him.

“It’s been a while,” he mumbles and pulls himself back into the dark present. The king in front of him ignores his words, instead walks past him without making a noise. _“Not like this. Use your mind – you have everything you need. Don’t waste more time than is needed.”_

“I can’t use it.”

 _“You are of our line, royal blood. Of course you can.”_  
If the mere thought about calling to the Gods above wasn’t so terrifying after King Mors’ actions, he may have laughed. There is no way they would stand in their favor. After calling for their help once already and throwing it away in a selfish-act – because it is, Mors didn’t want to die painfully like his forefathers, did he? – they wouldn’t grant their blessing so carelessly to the same line of blood.  
And still… he sounds so sure of himself.

“What makes you think they will accept us? Me? Why help us when we had the chance already?”

The king stops his soundless steps in front of the door and stares over his shoulder at Noctis in a way that makes him contemplate whether there may have been more to it. His words, dark and wrapped in century-old anger and irritation pretty much confirm it.

_“Because they owe us.”_

The door flings open, not because of one of the enemy soldiers still standing in the middle of the hallway and glancing over at the sound, but thanks to the king’s raised hand forcing Noctis into action. “Dammit, why did you-“  
Raising his sword he prepares to be discovered any second now, as the bluish glow of the ring is suddenly back with the mere wave of the king’s hand and then intensifies, as the king disappears completely from his eyesight. Pounding footsteps freeze him in his stance and before he is able to pull himself back together, two soldiers stare right at him… and then aside to check the rest of the landing. One kneels beside the dead body on the ground, then looks to the other and tells him to check the stairs.

Completely oblivious from the prince hiding in plain sight beside them.  
…they have been there before, haven’t they? Probably on the floors below as well. Has the ring covered him on his mad dash through the corridors? Did it hide their presence from him so he would hurry along?

 _“Come on, keep going. You don’t have much time.”  
_ Another king, one without his headgear stands in the middle of the hallway and the oblivious guards. A chocked sound leaves Noct’s throat, for a moment he fears the one kneeling beside him will notice, but not even a flinch. At the beckoning of his grandfather he creeps forward until his hand, warm and heavy, lands on Noct’s shoulder and softly pushes him forward, past guards, corpses and dark stains on the floor half-hidden by the too faint light of the auxiliary lighting.

 _“Put the ring on, my child.”  
_ His lip quivers and suddenly the tension and the growing weight seem too much. With deep breaths he tries to keep the tears from falling, as the grandfather he never met and only ever heard stories about lovingly accompanies him to his doom. But if they are so confident, if they lead him towards the explosions and the happenings of the past hours…

“Are they alive?” he whispers not because of the clueless soldiers they pass but because he is terrified to hear the answer. The hand lying on his shoulder squeezes it tenderly, before Mors responds with a calmness that feels too unnatural for the situation: _“They are not lost, not yet. But if you don’t use the ring –“_

“And beg the Gods for their help.”

 _“- and use the strength of your forefathers, they will surely fall.”_ At Noctis’ surprised glance something mischievous settles in his grandfather’s gaze that mildly reminds him of his dad.  
_“Don’t underestimate us, my child. The time for **that** hasn’t come yet.”_

Before Noct can make up his mind about the hidden meaning of his cryptic words, they stop at two large doors leading to the hall bearing the guests of the party and the supposed attackers. Probably. Hopefully.  
_“The ring. Trust, Noctis.”_

It comes off of the chain easier than expected. His hands have stopped trembling and the fear and pain from before have faded far away into the background. Mors’ hand still rests comfortably on his left shoulder.  
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he mumbles while staring in awe at the glowing jewel in his hand practically pulsating with magic now.

 _“Let the magic flow. Guide it, form it, own it, but don’t let it possess you.”  
_ His grandfather changes his position, in the blink of an eye he stands in front of him slightly crouched down to look into his grandson’s eyes with a seriousness that reveals nothing of his earlier amusement _. “Be careful. It is oh so easy, my child, to become overwhelmed by it. But don’t hesitate to draw on it’s power.”_

The ring slips onto his finger.  
A simple kiss onto his brow.

_“Take what you need.”_

The doors open. Mors disappears, the bluish glow encompasses him completely and with steady, echoing steps he enters the hall.

 

The first smell that greets him is burnt wood mixed with charred flesh.  
The first sight is of black stains covering the entirety of the room.  
The first touch he feels on his skin is a cold breeze rushing through the hole the explosions have ripped into the wall to his right.  
The first noise are painful, ragged breaths clinging desperately to life.

The soldiers staring at the open door and suspiciously at their captives to the far side of the room pause with weapons aimed and arms raised, a bellowed command on their lips. One of them stands out, just a single one of them. His armor is heavier and darker not only in color but in the aura surrounding his sole form. Contrary to his fellow soldiers, to his minions, he has his back turned to the entrance, seemingly not giving a care in the world about the unknown intruder. Because his focus is another’s entirely.

In front of him kneels Drautos.  
Bloody. Broken. Barely hanging on.

His breath rattles in his chest, wet and too loud in the tension-filled silence of the room. The only thing holding his body up at this point despite all the wounds he has received is the sword buried into the floor between him and Niflheim’s strongest and most feared weapon.  
Nonetheless Noctis is nothing but proud of the fierce look in his glassy eyes that burn through his enemy with all the hate and determination he is still able to cling to. The grin on his bloody lips distorts into a grotesque grimace, when he cocks his head towards the Empire’s invisible enemy and mutters with all the hope that has kept him going ever since the world began going down: “Seems like you failed, General. The cavalry arrived.”

Distant screams reach Noct’s ears.  
When he tears his gaze away from the man so dear to him, alike an uncle, he is able to make out the shimmering shield separating the Captain of the Kingsglaive from the rest of the guests.  
The level-headedness leaves his body in a rush, but he can’t stop the wave of relief sweeping him away from the impending disaster about to unfold in front of him.

Cor is standing the closest to the magical barrier cast by the king himself, too close for Noct’s liking, while Gladio tries to pry him away, back towards his father standing like the shield he was born to be between the king and the barrier. Ignis is kneeling beside his majesty and pressing his hands onto a wound in his chest area that colors the ceremonial attire into an ugly, burgundy red and the king’s face an alarming grey. The beads of sweat covering his brows bear witness to the surreal amount of stress his body is being pushed through. Prompto covers his other side, weapon aimed at whoever dares to come closest to their side of the hall.  
And in front of the other guests - terrified citizens, refugees and scattered council members alike – are several glaives standing to protect the rest of the guests. One of them is the cause for the furious screams aimed at the General, desperate to aid his Captain.  
He doesn’t need to look twice to know who it is.

It takes a moment for him to realize though why they haven’t felled Glauca with combined forces yet.  
Half of Clarus’ uniform is burnt and his seemingly unshakable stance solely remains intact by sheer force of will. Gladio’s glances, every few second, to reassure himself his father isn’t dying yet, so unsure, so open for the world to see…  
He must have taken the brunt of the force caused by the explosion to protect Regis. Lips pressed together into thin lines, unsteady breaths barely raising his chest and shaking hands hardly able to keep the weapon in his grip – he is nearly as bad off as the king himself.  
Cor’s face is half covered in blood running down from a wound to his head. Gladio is not holding him back from trying to break through the barrier – he is trying to keep him from keeling over and crashing to the ground.  
Ignis is talking to Regis, a steady stream of words that remain unheard by the king trying to remain conscious enough to hold the barrier up. Still he keeps talking, fussing really, and presses the bloody piece of cloth to the wound that has been soaked through ages ago.  
And Prompto - sweet, innocent Prompto - is absolutely terrified. The tear tracks on his cheeks haven’t dried yet, the shaking in his hands is too off to get a proper shot in no matter how close the enemy is.  
Not that Prompto’s, Gladio’s and Ignis’ mostly unharmed conditions mean that they would even have the ghost of a chance against the General, who has kept Niflheim in the game for years now.

No one in the room really has a chance at felling their enemy on their own. Not even Noct.  
The fact that Drautos has somehow managed to hinder him from smashing the barrier away and killing them all is mind-blowing enough – not that he will be able to endure it any longer with the tip of Glauca’s sword pressed against his throat.  
“Your cavalry is dead. Slaughtered. There is no one left to save you. Where is your ki-“  
Footsteps, too light for the Niflheim soldiers with their stifling armor, interrupt the low, grumbling voice. The sword disappears from Drautos’ throat and leaves a small trail of blood behind, but when the General whips around with unmatchable speed, no one is there except for his clueless soldiers.

The footsteps come closer.  
Upon seeing the still form of the General, lurking, the screams fall silent while the tension increases with unspoken curiosity.

And when Noctis pulls the magic slowly back into the ring, revealing himself step for step with his sword clutched in his right hand, a whole other set of screams arises. Glauca charges with no hesitation and Noct sends a quick prayer to his grandfather, as he lifts the sword up just in time to meet the otherwise fatal strike and then _pulls_.

It’s not like summoning a weapon from his armory.  
It’s not like phasing or warping – forcing his body to follow a line unseen by anyone else.

It’s nothing like the magic Noct is familiar with.

The sheer amount ready at his beck and call reveals itself with the wordless command in his head and the kings step aside from the protection they have formed inside the ring to give him what he demands.

_Take what you need._

His fingertips burn with a strange mix between torturous pain and endless power that reinvigorates his beaten-down soul and mind. Not his body, but it’ll be enough.  
The force behind Glauca’s attack is palpable in the air around them, like tiny shards breaking off of the force of their collision and his magic soaks it up like a sponge. Noct doesn’t move an inch from his position, as if the attack meant to dissect him is nothing more than a mere training strike. Before his enemy has the chance to get his bearings back, he follows the amused laugh in his ear, whirls around to build up speed and lets another weapon appear in his steady hands. Another pair joins him from inside of him, a bluish glow entering his vision, and together Somnus and him smash the Blade of the Mystic into the General’s side and fling him across the broken floor. He doesn’t nearly slid as far as intended and already pushes himself to his feet to grab his blade, but the dent in his armor is visible enough.  
Using the precious seconds gifted to him and ignoring the painful tug in his chest after that stunt, he rushes to Drautos’ side and tries to get an overview of his wounds.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” the Captain grumbles and pushes the Prince’s hands away to grab the sword in front of him with both hands and to pull himself into an upright position. As if Noct would let him take even one more strike for them.  
“Saving your ungrateful behind, it seems,” he utters under his breath and tries to take a stance beside Drautos, who pushes him back behind of him instantly.

“Whatever stunt you just pulled? Stop it. We will deal with him, somehow, but not by sacrificing you in the process.”

Surprised he pauses.  
Only then he feels the fine trickle running over his lips and tasting suspiciously like iron. Upon raising his hand to his nose, it comes away bloody. Just from one enhanced strike?

_Be careful. It is oh so easy, my child, to become overwhelmed by it._

One full blow taken, meant to cut through his sword and body alike.  
One strike delivered with the strength of a king long past and way over his bodily capabilities.  
But how else is he supposed to help them?

The General rushes towards them again, soldiers spring out of his way to not get skewered in the process. He is out for blood and Drautos happily delivers it to him when he tries to encounter the blow and soften it by leading his attack slightly off – he still gets battered away like a fly and thrown towards the shield that makes a sickening, crackling noise upon impact.  
Even if Noct would have followed the indirect order from the Captain he wouldn’t have been able to stand down, as Glauca doesn’t even glance back at his first assailant and charges directly for the Lucian Prince.  
He prepares for the blow, changes his position in the last possible second because without the enhanced magic in his defensive stance he _will_ get killed instantly, but even then his own attack only skims over the impenetrable armor. A second later the retaliation sends him flying and only thanks to Gladio’s heavy blows does he manage to not land face first.  
Glauca is still focused on him. Drautos doesn’t waste a second to use it to his advantage after he only just recovered enough from the hit before to sneak up on his massive enemy the way he is infamous for, when Noct stupidly decides to attack once more like he did before. Just to make sure. Another king, another weapon that is materializing in his hand and as expected Glauca recoils from his rush, standing directly between the two attacks about to be unleashed upon him.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”  
Of course Drautos notices, but despite the fact that his bellowed command not only raises Noct’s attention but Glauca’s as well, he keeps on charging. It’s a disaster unfolding in front of his eyes, but Noct is unable to do anything.  
The sword slices through Drautos’ weapon with ease and when it hits his side, Noct falsely fears he is being sliced in half. It’s a close call though and as the Captain is flung across the hall to land painfully in the rubble of the explosion, he stops moving entirely.

His own scream mixes with others, warning, but his attention is focus too much on the unconscious – dead? – man bleeding out on the other side of the hall. The fist hitting him moments later cracks his ribs and throws him into the crumbling wall near the hole ripped into the front of the Citadel.

For a few seconds his entire vision melts into a swirling mix of colors and strange lines moving towards him. Everything sounds far off, as if he is listening from underwater. Then something strange sets in – a warm feeling rushing through his veins, nearly as strange as the ring’s magic filling him to the brim.  
Suddenly the voices are back and his eyes are able to focus on the soldiers approaching with distorted grins on their enclosed faces. The screams are from his right, the barrier. In their similar motions they seem to agree on something, Ignis is holding Regis up who decidedly nods and raises his arm again towards the barrier.

Drautos, lying several meters to his left, seems to realize the second Noct does.

“It’s gonna be a slaughter,” he warns and tries to get onto his knees.  
The warm rush keeps the looming pain at bay and quickly he scrambles over the rubble to help the Captain up. It’s a wonder he hasn’t bled out yet, Noct worries distantly, but there is too much truth to his words as if he could bring any attention to it now. Both of them know the way Glauca attacks when there are pulps of people rushing him. They have shown it enough times during several council meetings and for that matter the others, preparing themselves to attack as the shield slowly falls away, should know as well.  
But with their king slowly bleeding out, their Prince in direct line of fire and their only defensive player about to bite the dust, there really seems to be only option left for them.  
Unless…

“We have to take him out.”

“Give me one of your daggers,” Drautos responds and even before it has fully materialized, they are standing and running through the enclosing soldiers towards the only enemy that really counts for now.  
“Distract him, I’ll get through his armor somehow. The second I do, strike. No matter what, understood?”

A nod is all he is able to give as an answer, before Drautos fights off the approaching soldiers for Noct to race through unhindered. The barrier is nearly down and the anticipation in the still General is disgustingly gleeful, as he stands patiently to destroy his enemies in one go.  
This time Noct attacks all out again, but not a single complaint reaches his ears. If they don’t get through this stupidly thick armor, if they don’t manage to stop Glauca with their final attack –

It’s time to end it, no matter how.  
Even if he has to open the floodgates to do so.

Tonitrus is the one who calls the loudest to him, willing to wield his weapon to ensure the survival of the line of Lucis. Seconds before Noct jumps up for a better position the General turns, prepared with his sword at the ready. He doesn’t expect it to shatter though at the brunt force of the mace crushing the metal under the maiming attack of the Fierce.  
When he tries to move backwards, tries to get the mace out of his armor that has been tremendously weakened, Drautos strikes out of the shadows.

The armor is meant to be impenetrable, forged to resist every able Kingsglaive Lucis has to offer. Up until now.  
A small crack thanks to the heavy mace in between his chest plate and the armor covering his arm is enough to shove the dagger in between and pull. The crack widens, minimal, but wide enough for Noct’s sword to fit through. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see the barrier fall away entirely – then there is an ear-deafening roar and pure anger radiating off of their enemy, as he throws Noct several meters away and the mace shatters into blue shards of magic. He is already up again, prepared to strike, his sword materializes in his hand and the magic flowing through it will make sure to impale the guy for good, Drautos only needs to get out of the way –

Instead of pushing the Captain aside, instead of flinging him away like he has done _every-single-time_ , Glauca realizes what they have planned with sickening ease. And suddenly he holds his captive in front of him like a human shield, gleefully waiting for Noct’s next move.  
He freezes.

Others trying to come to their aid are halted by a wall of soldiers, ready to plow on their wounded bodies and eliminate them even if they have to sacrifice themselves while doing so. Everything for the Empire.

It is so, so easy to end it all. Now.  
One strike and the General is done for.

Otherwise he will break his captive’s neck. Beat a prince blinded by rage. Plow through his crushed enemies with ease.

Noct takes a step forward.  
The weapon in his hand shakes.

It’s so easy.  
_No matter what, understood?_

A look into Drautos’ eyes is enough.  
The kings move with him, quicken his steps, strengthen his weapon and lend him the resolve his faltering soul needs as he rushes forward and finally buries the blade of his sword, guided through the crack by Somnus himself, in between Drautos’ ribs and inside the General’s heart with a scream that tears at his heart.

Silence.  
Choked gasps at his ear. A warm body curling over him, protecting, shielding him. Even now.  
The sword disappears into a million shards and Glauca falls, surprise edged into his dimming eyes underneath a helmet meant to make invincible.

Screams arise like a storm as the fights are picked up again.  
They are distant, unnoticeable for the Prince trying to hold up his Captain and failing miserably as they crash to the ground. His hands are shaking when he turns him onto his side so Titus doesn’t drown on his own blood he coughs up. Noct tries to tell him that it’s gonna be alright, that there has to be a medic nearby, ~~not down in front of the Citadel, ages away~~ , but _nothing_ leaves his throat. Not a single word. No consolation. No _I’ll be with you till the end_.  
A hand searches for his own, uncoordinated but determined. Silently he reaches for it, returns the tight grasp. Titus tries to form words, coughs again, laughs wetly at his lacking success. Noct comes closer, then freezes as two burning eyes settle on him with something he desperately tries to shy away from. Acceptance.

“…’ts not their fault.”  
The tremble in his voice, so weak and unsteady, is like a knife in his own gut. This is real.  
He is dying.

“..ya… ya need to understan’…”  
Frantically he looks up, ignores the tears in his eyes that make it hard to see clearly. The fights are still in full swing. One though, one of them, is closer than anyone else, unrelentingly smashing through his enemies with a rage burning in him that has even the silent kings by his side perk up at. His eyes are set on their location. Fear. Rage. And above all else this stupid, stupid hope that he’ll not be too late.

“Noctis!”  
It’s a lot quieter than intended but still with the same ferocity Noct is used to. The blood on Titus’ lips makes it hard to look him into his eyes.

“It’s-not-their-fault.”  
And then he finally understands and risks a glance at the back of the hall to the invited refugees huddled together and traumatized by the terror following them somewhere that promised to keep them away from it all.

“Tha- … they din’t know… so- someone…”  
Someone betrayed them.

“Ya need to reali-“

“Shh. It’s okay. I understand.”  
Titus falls silent, relaxes reassured.  
And when the tears finally begin to fall, he bends forward and presses his forehead into the ground beside their intertwined hands. A million pictures rush through his head. They are not only his father’s retinue, a Captain, a Marshall, a Shield. They are his family, too, people who raised him, who scolded him undeterred by his position as their future leader. People who spent comfort when there was no one else around, people who saw behind the wall he had built around himself.  
A sob. He tries to suppress them. Another follows. The cold hand lets go of his own and is placed upon his head.

“…’ts alrigh’ kid-“

“It’s not!”  
His shout is raw and desperate and when he looks up at the bloodless face trying to hold on for just a second longer, for _him_ , he turns to _them_. “Do something!” They stay silent. One by one flickers away from his vision, retreating to a plane where he can’t see them. Only Mors stays behind at the edge of the room, staring at him with a look that is as unsettling as his uncle in anything but blood dying on the floor beside of him.

 _Let the magic flow. Guide it, form it, own it, but don’t let it possess you._  
His sobs fall silent. Contemplating.  
Out of the corner of his eye he sees multiple forms coming closer. One is Nyx. The other a soldier, determined, too far away from the Glaive to be taken down in time before he reaches them. Silently he grabs Titus’ hand again, too still, too cold.

_Take what you need._

Something in his chest clenches at the thought. He can’t possibly-  
A pressing numbness takes over.  
They will die. Titus, his father, Clarus… _Take what you need._

His other hand rises slowly, palm towards the ground, ring visible on his finger.  
When he stares into the soldier’s eyes, the little flame of regret and compassion is buried under ice-cold determination, while the shouts of warning inside of his head fall on deaf ears. They’ll not die tonight. Not them at least.

The warm, bluish glow of the ring changes.  
It’s eerie, darker, flickering under the magic reaching beyond his physical grasp. He can feel them. Everyone. Little embers in his mind, some glowing more, some less. With a mere flick of his wrist he sends his magic out towards his first victim and then, when he grabs hold of the man, he doesn’t pull but all-out _rips_ his magic back. It takes everything with it, every ounce of that which Titus lacks right now. A second later the soldier stumbles, lets go of his weapon and goes to the ground. He doesn’t get up again nor does he move, when Nyx slows down and comes to a stop at his side.  
It flows through his veins, not like his magic, more steady and reliable, before he gently lets it glide into Titus’ still body. For a second it seems to fuel his little flame, stops it from going out, before it recedes back to its tiny, endangered status.

Not enough.  
One more.

Another soldier is further away, in the middle of a fight with Ignis.  
His magic shoots forwards, latches on, buries itself into his skin and very soul, before it is ripped back by mere will alone and sends another empty corpse crashing to the ground. Not enough. Not nearly enough to pull Titus back from the edge. The ring’s glow brightens darkly, Nyx’s voice is drowned out by the furious whispers in his mind, intensifying with every life he harvests.

This time it is not their decision to make though.  
“Noct… stop it, y-“

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.  
Pulls in the magic at his disposal, everything. And then… lets go.

All he is aware of at first are the screams in his head mixing with the ones surrounding him. Pure agony, deaths prolonged by too many at once, his magic isn’t able to focus and makes it worse, slower. But that _feeling_ , that white-hot flow in his veins ensuring his friend’s survival–

More flames gather themselves around him, spend him warmth when his body feels too cold to stop him from shivering. His friends. They are hurt though, two more than all others, so he spreads his magic further, pulls stronger, and sends it out towards his tiny army of flames. Gasps reach his ears, before they are drowned out by bodies collapsing and men screaming in the throes of death. It doesn’t reach him emotionally, not at all.

Not yet at least.  
The only thing that matters right now is to ensure their safety.

“-needs to stop, he’s-”

“Noctis! St-“

“We have to-“

 

_enjoy the party_

“It’s alright, my son.”  
Then, slowly, the world begins to come through again.

“You can rest now.”  
His father’s words are the first to breach the barrier the crystal’s magic has built around him.

“All is well. There we go, come back to us, my child.”  
And then it finally just… stops.

Everything is gone, all at once. The adrenaline pushing his body far beyond his capabilities, the gentle protection of the kings, resting on his shoulders like a warm blanket, the endless abyss of pure, raw magic edging him on to achieve the impossible and – the most obvious of them all – the ring around his finger.

His sight returns with the first drops of panic setting in.  
They are all surrounding him, his father to his right, kneeling by his side with a worried frown on his face that only deepens, when Noct sets his blurry vision on him. A piercing thought – his eyes whip around to find the Captain sitting to his left, hand placed between his shoulder blades to keep him upright. No wound on him, especially no stab through his chest delivered by someone he is bound to protect.

“We need to get his wounds treated immediately!”  
Ignis. Iggy. They are all safe. Thank the Gods.

“No, thanks to _you_ , buddy,” a shaken voice in front of him returns. Prompto. Did he say that out loud? His smile is wavering and his eyes are looking close to spilling the gathered tears, but he holds on. Before Noct is able to form a reply though, something, anything to stop them from looking at him like _he_ is the one nearly assassinated mere hours ago, a noise reaches his ears. Painful gasping, rattling breaths and coughs too wet to be from a mere cold. His brain realizes seconds after his body does and when he finally collapses there are multiple pairs of hands holding him up, until one in particular pulls him against his chest in a silent command for the others to let him have his son.

“Not yet,” his father mumbles and brushes a strand of hair out of his blinking eyes. It’s hard to keep focus, but at the same time there is no way to rest. Too much goes on inside his body – there is overwhelming pain that leaves him gasping for air in short breaths, there are wounds too deep that draw the blood right out of his face and at last there is a surge rising up and up and up and-

The silent protest is palpable in the air, even though none of them voice their concerns.  
“There is too much magic left,” the king clarifies calmly and lays a steady hand onto his son’s forehead. Slowly Noct closes his eyes. Tries to relax, desperately, because his body protests with every surge of energy flowing and rampaging through him.  
“It’s like poison, burning its way through his body and stopping at nothing until it is used up or there is nothing else to engulf. We use it daily - to fight, to train, but not in the amounts he has come across today. None of us has.”

Besides Regis’ hand on Noct’s burning skin and the arm holding him close to his body, he can feel his father’s presence slowly edging closer to the center of it all. And despite the pain crawling from the tip of his toes up through every cell of his body, he feels himself giving in. It’s too much, something dark lurks in his mind that he wants to escape from at all costs, but he can’t let himself fall into the welcoming unconsciousness just yet. The magic is still there, waiting to be unleashed, for him to do something with it or else it will devour him surely.  
Also…

“’m sorry.”  
Their voices are a mess. Too many people talking too rapidly and all at once for Noct to follow. His quiet words though cut through theirs like a shout. They fall silent. The tension rises.  
Surprised. Puzzled.

“Save your energy, Highness, we’ll get you to a medic.”  
A deeper voice cuts in from somewhere behind of him. For a second it sounds suspiciously like Clarus, then it mixes with another one and he is hopelessly lost again.

“How, though? There is no way to get a medic up here soon enough and the medical wing has been evacuated the second the explosions went off.”

“What else are we to do? We have to treat his wounds, check him for internal injuries after the stunts he just pulled while we squirmed under the Empire’s hand like-“

“-sorry.”  
They don’t understand. _He_ doesn’t understand.  
Wearily Noct tries to open his eyes, but it’s hard to push through the mush in his head that wants to pull him further away towards sweet oblivion. His fingers grasp the collar of Regis’ shirt, try to hold on. _enjoy the party_

“Dad-“  
And then it finally begins to dawn on the distraught king, who takes his child’s hand into his own with a strong, loving grasps and the silent promise to not let go. “There is nothing to be forgiven for, Noctis. You should rest now.” His voice is still so calm, so full of love - despite the panic and blood and death all around them, despite Noct’s words - that he nearly believes him. Still…

“’m so sorry, I was st-“

“Shh.”  
The footsteps coming closer and the voices in the background all steadily fade away, when his father presses his lips onto his burning forehead and steals the magic away.

“Rest now.”  
And with his father’s words accompanied by the gentle flow of his magic and the knowledge that they are safe at last, he fades away into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> This... was meant to be shorter. And more about the 'poisoned' part as well. Oh, and it was supposed to be up around the 5th/6th, because those were the prompts for that day.  
> Yeah. Haha.
> 
> I love having to type the notes all over again, because AO3 doesn't like me back on this site, but I'll type it again nonetheless.  
> It's the first work I've published for this fandom and additionally it's the first story I've been getting to paper in over a year. Can't even begin to describe to you how good that feels.
> 
> About the end - I felt that prolonging it even further would only make it boring and be unnecessary.  
> Either Noct would have woken up in a hospital bed with his father at his bedside and talking to his son about him blaming himself for way too much stuff. Then he would have found out about him slaughtering the enemy soldiers.  
> Or I would have made a time jump from about a few weeks to a year. Noct would have visited the nameless soldier's grave. It's a sunny day. They are celebrating Lucis winning the war. Drautos approaches him, they talk for a bit and then return to Noct's father and the guys waiting for them.
> 
> I had some mushy words at the end here, disgustingly fluffy about me trying to characterize those guys and failing massively but 'giving it another shot'.  
> Not gonna repeat myself, probably better for you guys, but I'll leave you the same stupidly cute heart. Thank you for reading, guys.
> 
> Milu
> 
> PS: No cute heart, because apparently AO3 can't take it and makes me rewrite this **** for the fifth time. Imma scream. THIS is why I don't upload.


End file.
